ranting to (and about) my new pants

So I bought pants on my day off last week, and today I put on a pair of the new pants for work. Now, this particular pair, I had noticed in the store, had a patterned cloth on the inside for the pockets. I’d sort of glanced at it because I was more concerned with inseam length than interior-pocket-material, but today I took a good look.

The pattern is words. Affirmations, if you will.

You are gorgeous.

Um.

You are glamorous.

Yeah, see, I don’t aim for glamour in my everyday life. Mostly I aim for intimidating as hell and multitasking like a boss.

You are sexy.

Okay, how do you even know? For all you know, pants of mine, I could be wearing you to build a death ray. You could be the pants I chose to wear whilst exacting my bloody revenge on all who wronged me; the pants I chose to wear as I finally put my plan for total megalomaniacal world domination into motion. You could be the pants I chose to wear as I ascended to my ice throne, as I built my magical chocolate factory, as I wrote the music that would make grown people weep even as it rewired their brains to make them better minions. All of this is, admittedly, very sexy … but you don’t know. You’re pants.

You are stunning.

Annoying pants.

You are beautiful.

Annoying pants that I will most certainly not wear to build my death ray.

The Dreaded Bio

I read (you can check out my Goodreads if you want).

I write (I’ve been published in Cicada, On Spec, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, GigaNotoSaurus, Penumbra eMag, and Betwixt; the stuff that’s available online for reading or purchase is linked below).

I plan for the inevitable zombie apocalypse and welcome the coming of the gorilla revolution. Or the anarchist rabbits. Whichever happens first.